


running with wolves for fun and profit

by butt_muncher_seven



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: "What if Witchers had even MORE mutations" AU, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt teaching Jaskier how to fight, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Threesomes, endgame Geralt/Jaskier, for example: knotting, made up monsters based on less-recently made up monsters, spelling witcher with a grammatically unsound capital W because I like the way it looks better, that cool half-shifted state the sexier werewolves can do, the inherent homoeroticism of swordplay, the threesome is a one-time thing but it's still pretty great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butt_muncher_seven/pseuds/butt_muncher_seven
Summary: Jaskier is trying to convince Geralt to keep him around. He's finally getting to theinterestingpart of the real Continent, and it's all because of his taciturn demigod of a tour guide. He's never had so much fun in his post-academic career.Geralt is trying just as hard to convince himself that keeping Jaskier around is a terrible idea, and that's only getting more difficult. He's getting used to having company, to indulging in the pack instincts that Vesemir always warned him against.The last person Geralt wants to see in the middle of this psycho-emotional crisis is Lambert.Lambert brings with him a host of other problems, like how to hunt a monster that isn't a monster and how to casually have sex with the man you're trying not to fall in love with. But if Lambert and Jaskier are going to jointly insist on the bard following them into danger, he can at least prepare Jaskier for it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 72
Kudos: 696
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. What Big Teeth You Have

".They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves: beware the Witcher" 

_.Holy Tome of the Eternal Fire_

Jaskier falls in love with language when he's thirteen, when he finds a volume of Temerian ballads tucked in the back of his uncle's stylish, if unread library. These ballads aren't the usual stuff he was raised on - tourney songs and classical epics. This is tense, highly controlled verse, an immense amount of emotion contained within tightly restrained meter. The quick pacing, the heart wrenching imagery - they all speak to him, young and in the midst of his first true heartbreak. He dreams of crafting his own someday, of living inside those legends.

When he is eighteen he grows tired of the city, of the students, of people _talking_ and _talking_ but never _doing._ He's sick of studying out of history textbooks that were based on the ramblings of what one diplomat saw from his carriage, teeming with classist bias and stuffed with more propaganda than a morality play. He wants to see the _real_ Continent, get to know people from _everywhere_. Were there really men with dog's heads in Nilfgaard? Did agricultural superstitions differ widely between the agrarian and pastoral peoples of the North? Was that why the cult of Melitele fared so much better in the South? And, deep down, the childish part of him still wants to know if _real_ heroes exist. So far every celebrity he’s met has been very disappointing, but surely, somewhere?

He doesn't know, but he's going to be the man who finds out. And every town needed fresh troubadours to travel through.

He leaves in the late spring, joining a merchant caravan travelling through the lake country, aiming first for Northern Redania. His family connections will be enough to carry him through the winter in Montecalvo, if he decide to stay out that long. It's exhilarating.

He gets robbed almost immediately, but that's alright. His lute was in his room at the inn and for thieves they were very polite. It's all extremely informative. He learns how to travel lighter, how to attract the right amount of attention, who to trust. He'd always been good at making new acquaintances, and he finds he can pick up new friends the way his merchant friend Zanna could pick up coin. It's just _easy -_ everyone wants to talk about themselves, particularly to someone who's _listening_ , and he just goes from there. 

Geralt's taciturnicity only draws the game out longer. The Witcher is no exception, not really - Geralt clearly loves having an audience, when he forgets that he's supposed to hate it.

The best part about Geralt is that he really is what the legends say he is: powerful, brave and monstrous. When he yells the mountains shake. When he bares his teeth wildlife flees. Dogs cower when he passes, and his teeth are the wrong shape for a human mouth. He is everything about mankind made monstrous and Jaskier is obsessed with the gentle way he treats his horse, his fellow outcasts, even Jaskier. 

The whole ‘getting captured by elves at the ends of the world’ thing had in no way dampened the Witcher’s appeal. Jaskier still gets shivers from remembering the way the ropes binding them had grown tight and choking as Geralt had shifted, growing even larger and more horrifying, all fangs and white hair and bright black-and-yellow eyes.

“Don't think for a _second_ that I am one of them.” He’d barked at Filavandrel. Jaskier wishes he’d had multiple angles on that confrontation, wishes he could have seen more than Geralt’s profile and Filavandrel’s consternation. 

They don’t go back to Posada, because there’s no more work to be found there, and conveniently there isn’t another town for days. Geralt won’t abandon him in the wilds, however little he likes traveling with others. During that time Jaskier learns that Geralt has met several royal figures, that erynia are harder to kill than harpies, and that Geralt doesn’t mind eating his meat raw. It’s not enough. He is endlessly, dangerously fascinated by the Witcher. 

He wants to watch Geralt _a lot_ , which is unfortunate because it’s obvious that Geralt is trying to get rid of him. The Witcher started, foolishly enough, with trying to scare him away. In Posada Geralt had only let his eyes flash dark and wolf-like when punching Jaskier in the stomach (note to self: do not bring up Blaviken). Troubling, but a little light violence was worth the price of admission for access to a Witcher's hunt. Time passes, and Jaskier begins to wonder if he should extend his ride-along. A younger Jaskier might have been turned off by Geralt's brusqueness, but his devoted study of humanity has taught him many things thus far, among them how to differentiate genuine dislike from general awkwardness. Several of his favourite friendships had begun in such distinctly icy waters as these. Then, as it becomes clear that Jaskier is not easily discouraged, Geralt grows less and less concerned with trying to keep his shifting hidden. He starts letting it out for increasingly minor irritations until Jaskier's certain he's doing on purpose. When Geralt full on roars at him, literally, _roars_ , fangs dripping, frame huge and looming, for merely knocking a pail of soaking harpy eyes over, Jaskier flips it around on him and yells back. They stand there, Jaskier mirroring Geralt's angry looming posture, and it's a genuine delight to watch Geralt's expression slide from fury to total bewilderment. 

"You really aren't scared of me, are you?" He asks, whole body seeming to shrink as it reverts to it's more human state.

"No more than I should be, I assume."

" _Why?"_ The Witcher's confused frown looks like it's been carved into his forehead, and on a certain level Jaskier gets it. He is a bard with no martial or magical prowess and he's in the middle of nowhere with a man who has both in spades, practically daring him to attack.

"Because I don't believe that you're going to try to hurt me, I suppose. You worked too hard to save me from the elves, my friend, and you didn't even try to kill _them_ either."

"I'm not your friend." Geralt insists, which Jaskier knows enough not to take seriously.

"Perhaps not," He shrugs, graciously letting the matter slide. "But as a bloodthirsty butcher you're kind of a let down, honestly."

Geralt's lip curls, but he goes back to picking through monster parts without contradicting him.

Geralt stops using his shifting to try and scare Jaskier after that. That isn't to say he does it less; rather, he seems to have _relaxed_ around Jaskier, at least a bit. He doesn't work as hard to hide his monster features. Jaskier begins to realize how hard Geralt works to appear human in towns and cities. The Witcher has to watch that his hands don't turn into claws when he's cleaning his kit with slow, deliberate strokes, but when a knot is too snarled or a bit of dissection too delicate he'll bring them out deliberately, sometimes throwing Jaksier a guilty, furtive look. He'll grow taller and stronger when hauling game back to camp. His eyes go dark and dog-like much more easily, particularly when it's bright out. Jaskier eats it all up, _hungry_ for his friend’s secrets, for his trust.

His plan is to invent a lie _just_ grand enough that the Witcher will believe it to keep him around. Perhaps a secret quest of his own to free a transformed family member, or a perilous flight from an ancient curse… All lies come due, of course, and he’s worried about the potentially fatal moment when Geralt discovers he’s been lied to. He’s also not sure he _can_ lie to Geralt. Legend has it that Witchers can smell lies on your skin, and despite his prodding nothing Geralt has done so far has been enough to confirm or deny it. It’s impossible to tell if Geralt believes his small lies or if he just doesn’t care enough to call him out.

Fortunately, from one perspective, when they get to the small town of Dolma Leyda the first thing they find on the local message board is a large and surprisingly accurate portrait of Jaskier. Written above it in large, angry letters are the words “wanted alive, or dead so long as he suffered. 500 floren reward.” The bottom text gets really into what a bastard he’s been, _allegedly_ , and while that’s obviously not _ideal_ the upshot is that there’s obviously no way Geralt can abandon him now.

“Why does Poloz Malachite want you flayed alive?” Geralt asks, face pinched.

“It was all a big misunderstanding.” He protests, looking around at passersby a little anxiously. Five hundred florens is a lot of money, especially in the backwater parts of Aedirn. He'd be surprised if every nearby wanderer that looked even a little like him hasn't already been dragged before Poloz. 

“So you didn’t sleep with his daughter and steal his treasury.” Geralt states.

“I didn’t steal his treasury.” Jaskier is a big fan of honesty by omission.

“Fuck.” Geralt sighs, which proves that he too realizes how perilous Jaskier’s plight will be without a big Witcher backing him up. Perfect.

The message board also provides a contract for a snake monster stealing children and eating livestock in Leyda proper. Geralt looks at him somewhere between resentful and resigned when Jaskier asks to stay with him. 

“Just until we get to Redania,” Geralt insists. From Redania he can access the rest of the Continent in relative safety, even with a bounty on his head.

“Or Rivia?” Jaskier offers hopefully. It's the only other route past the mountains, if considerably farther away and in the opposite direction they've been travelling. Geralt just glares at him. 

The contract for the snake monster is being offered by Lord Bazhov of Leyda, a beady-eyed little man who makes Jaskier’s skin crawl. He is also offering good coin to deal with the monster his peasants are calling ‘the Great Snake.’ Or, more specifically to deal with “whatever the hell those idiots have been petitioning me about, I mean _honestly_ .” Lord Bazhov would like someone to put an end to the complaints of livestock loss and missing children, and he’d _really_ like someone to restore the trade routes between Sysert and Leyda, particularly now that the saltpeter mines are producing gold as well. Plus they’ve been falling behind on some contracts with Ban Ard, and the division of troops he sent in to investigate returned unsuccessful. 

In the wilder territory between Aedirn and Kaedwen the people of both nations live out their lives largely untroubled by national politics. The kings of their respective nations still occasionally war with one another but nowadays they do so to the east where the Pontar is easier to cross and the rewards are richer. Along the way Geralt picks up a few small bounties from infestations of nekkers or foglets, but the people of the west are poor and hardy, accustomed to dealing with such things as they arise. Geralt mentions once, tantalizingly, that they may even be following behind another Witcher. 

They follow the road to Sysert, a waystation town between the mines and large swaths of rocky farmland where the people are underfed and more than usually hostile. They spit at Geralt's feet and make a big show of stumbling over if he happens to brush past them. It puts Jaskier on edge, though Geralt bears it all with the ease of long practice. One man, visibly resentful, sells them the whereabouts of the miller whose daughter was stolen for a whole ducat. He also does a double take when he sees Jaskier properly and then lingers, squinting suspiciously at him. Geralt hurries them along.

Jaskier, wanting to be helpful, convinces Geralt to stop at the village pub (such as it is) before heading off to find the miller. His hope is to catch a few orens playing the new music he’s been working on and maybe charm some hints about this monster from the audience, but that is superseded by the way Geralt suddenly sits bolt upright in the saddle when they near the inn’s stable.

“Geralt?” He prods, because the Witcher hasn’t improved much communication-wise in the past two weeks they’ve traveled together.

“I was right,” He growls, and for a moment Jaskier thinks that’s all he’s going to get. “I’m not the only Witcher in Kaedwen.” 

To say Jaskier is excited to walk into the stables would be an understatement. He is fucking ecstatic. Will the other Witcher know Geralt? Will they be best friends? Enemies?

The answer, it turns out, is yes.

“Lambert,” Geralt greets the Witcher, with just enough bass in his monotone growl that Jaskier _knows_ something’s going down.

“Geralt!” The man cries, voice surprisingly light for the man it comes out of. Lambert is scarred and dangerous looking, well armed and armoured. He’s shorter and darker than Geralt, with a wolf’s grin and a forty-year-old pawnbroker’s receding hairline. Jaskier isn’t sure how he feels about him.

There is something attractive about Lambert's face, about the way it twists into sneer reflexively when Geralt pays attention to him. Jaskier has never met a man who he wanted to look at _exactly_ as much as he wanted to punch. It's _interesting_. Or, perhaps it’s just jarring, seeing eyes he's come to think of as Geralt's staring out of the face of a stranger. 

Still, he can’t fail to notice the family resemblance between the men, though clearly they share no blood. It's in their movements, in the way they never truly relax but sit tense, like coiled predators. It's in the regular yellow-eyed sweep of the barn, not hostile but _wary_ , in the quiet of their movements, even the little twitch towards every sound. 

The main difference is that Lambert is an asshole. 

“Who the fuck is this?” Lambert jerks his head towards Jaskier without breaking eye contact with Geralt. There is something a little too intense about the way both Witchers stare - another similarity.

" _Lambert,_ " Geralt sighs, like Jaskier's mother would when he embarrassed her in court.

“Jaskier Pancratz, travelling bard. Geralt has kindly allowed me to accompany him while I search for inspiration.” He answers with a winning smile, willing to put an effort into keeping things civil.

“Wait, isn’t this the kid Poloz Malachite wants dead?” Lambert says, looking him over, not even making a token to keep his voice down. 

“For the record, I don’t even know who Poloz Malachite is.” Jaskier hisses, less civilly. 

“I thought you met his daughter." Geralt frowns at him.

“Well, I know an Azovka Malachite, and I can make an _inference._ ”

"So, you're a wanted man and you’re following Geralt around writing songs about him?" Lambert looks affronted. Geralt looks mortified.

“No.” Geralt growls, right as Jaskier says, “I mean yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

Geralt glares at Jaskier. 

“Stop helping.” Geralt snaps.

Lambert looks at them the way Jaskier's mother had looked at him when he quit his position at Oxenfurt.

“So wait, is he _paying_ you to do this?” Lambert asks.

Jaskier looks over at Geralt, trying to gauge how much collegial mockery the Witcher is willing to take on his behalf. He wants so badly to make things worse.

“Hey, you won’t hear me criticizing how another Witcher spends his money.” Lambert says, and Jaskier can tell from the way his eyes are fixed on Geralt, whose shoulders are rising slightly, that there's going to be trouble. “Better use than that time you tried to impress all those Temerian soldiers, remember? At the brothel, when they said no man could plow more than three whores at once - “

Jaskier very badly wants to hear how that story ends, but he may need to wait because Geralt is currently driving his shoulder into Lambert’s stomach and tackling him into the ground.

Jaskier scurries backwards out of range of flying limbs, grabbing Roach's reins. She jerks her head about, alarmed and already retreating, but she goes with him. He won't be much use in this fight, but he can at least keep Geralt's horse from running off. The Witchers’ tussling doesn’t last long; Geralt pins Lambert pretty swiftly, despite much snapping of too-strong jaws and the way Lambert’s shifted limbs don’t bend at the same places a man’s should. It’s magnificent. Lords would kill to have fights like this for entertainment; the greatest bear-baiting he’s seen doesn’t come close.

Lambert, when Geralt lets him up, is surprisingly eager to check out their lead with them. Jaskier had never really made friends with those children, but he recognizes the type of younger sibling from school. Lambert even begrudgingly tolerates Jaskier. The more questions Jaskier asks him about being a Witcher, the happier he seems to get, ironically. He's certain that the 'Great Snake' is a zmeneistar, a massive snake monster that can turn into a person, citing several tracks of dead grass around town. Geralt walks beside Roach a couple paces ahead, largely ignoring them. 

They're in sight of the mill when Geralt does that thing again where he zones out and then heads off in a completely different direction, like a dog catching a scent. Jaskier trails after him, trying in vain to see what is interesting about this particular bit of forest. The wagon tracks, when Geralt points them out, seem obvious. The red ribbon jauntily adorning the branch of a hollow tree stump he manages to catch before Geralt did. The glint of a wide golden ring, hidden behind a fern and quite a bit of dirt, Jaskier never would have seen. 

“Poloz Malachite loses a daughter and a treasure. The miller loses a daughter." Geralt summarizes, in that endearingly spontaneous way he does. "Here we find a woman’s ribbon, left in the woods less than a month, at the end of a wagon trail that was heavier when it left than when it entered. This ring, fit to a large hand, has fallen nearby.” 

“Azovka seemed fully capable of robbing her father and disappearing, if that’s what you’re implying.” Jaskier rubs his chin thoughtfully. It's a good theory. Perhaps he could convince Geralt to join him as a sort of travelling detective-slash-folk-hero, if his music career doesn’t work out.

“So you don’t think the zmeneistar has anything to with it?” Lambert frowns.

“I’m not sure why it would still be in town if it already had a treasure..” Geralt absentmindedly plucks flowers off a branch of white myrtle like he often does when he's thinking. 

“Well, the tracks I found are definitely fresh,” Lambert says uncertainly.

“Maybe Poloz Malachite _is_ the zmeneistar!” Jaskier offers, eyes agleam with the storytelling opportunities - two young women, one who’s father is both literally and figuratively a monster, find love and a happy ever after by robbing him blind and running away together. It’s the best combination of revenge story and fairytale, just the kind of thing audiences really eat up.

“ _Maybe._ ” Geralt insists.

For all his talent in attracting conflict, Jaskier doesn't actually like people being angry with him. He doesn't like seeing other people hurt and doesn't like cruelty in his companions. His mother hadn't seen much use in anyone from the lower classes and she was considered lax in her maternal discipline by her peers, but she still hadn't raised him to be impolite. 

It's abundantly clear that no one raised Lambert at all.

The miller is nervous and seems to think Geralt might be reporting to the local magistrate. Neither of the Witchers are particularly reassuring, but Lambert is definitely worse.

"Do I _look_ like I give a fuck?" Lambert shouts at the poor man after his fifth rambling diversion into the logistics of transporting flour. "I don't care how much sawdust is or is not in your bread, you unbelievable twat.”

"Well you don't have to _yell_ about it," Jaskier bites back at the other Witcher, annoyed. "Is this how you deal with victims normally?”

Geralt watches them closely, clearly tense, but seems unwilling to intervene. Apparently he's used to letting Lambert's behaviour slide.

"Do you know how to do my job now? Has a week of following a Witcher around told you what facts I do and don't need?" Lambert shouts at Jaskier instead of the miller, which is technically an improvement.

"I'm just saying, you don't need to be an asshole about it.” Jaskier shouts back, reasonably.

"How about you Geralt? Huh, buddy?” Lambert rounds on Geralt now. “Do you let your little pissant pick and choose the nicest ways to ask a question? This motherfucker's been lying _through his teeth_ about his daughter being kidnapped and - you know what, find me in the pub. I'll be drinking a Beauclair white and working on my manners."

Lambert flips them off and stomps back the way they'd come.

The miller grimaces.

"So wait, _can_ Witchers smell lies?" Jaskier looks at Geralt, searching for confirmation.

Geralt sighs deeply, a copout if there ever was one.

“Was your daughter acting strangely before she left?” He presses on, sounding tired.

“She didn’t _leave,_ ” the miller insists, “That bastard _seduced_ her. Kept sending his awful daughter around to butter up my Natasha with gifts and flowers.”

“And was she.. receptive?” Geralt asks with surprising delicacy.

“Oh, aye, though the fool girl pretended it all meant nothing. Blushin’ and smilin’ like nobody’s business. I told her, there’s nothing worth drawing the attention of a man like Poloz, he’s known to be violent and cruel, but she’d just scoff and tell me not to worry, and now…” The miller is clearly struggling not to cry, and Jaskier hates himself for cutting in but he needs to know.

“I’m so sorry, but - Poloz _who_ stole your daughter?” He asks.  
“Poloz Malachite, he’s the - what would you call him, bandit king in the area? Real thorn in the side of the local lords. And us, recently. Been “requisitioning” our herds, press-ganged a couple of our young people.. Plus since last month they’ve upped their road tax to nearly eighty percent of the mine’s output.”

“Can he turn into a snake?” Geralt asks, voice flat.

“Can he? I’ve never heard that.”

When Jaskier tells this story, Geralt won’t express quite so many anti-royalist sentiments.

Lambert is not drinking anything with a name when they find him sitting outside on the pub’s brand new, ‘Witchers only’ patio section. Neither is he working on his manners, although his Scoi'etel deck build looks really good, actually. Jaskier wants to play him.

"So?" Lambert asks cheerfully, previous hostility apparently forgotten. 

"It’s just a fucking bandit lord.” Geralt growls, tossing his gauntlets on the table and grumpily taking a seat. 

Lambert just grunts.

“The one that wants Jaskier dead.”

“Oh, fun.” 

“I want to make it clear that I did not know about the bandit lord part at the time, although it does explain why Azovka carried so many knives.” Jaskier adds.

Geralt glares at him, but that's nothing new.

"So, we have a plan for getting in yet?" Lambert stretches lazily.

"I thought Witchers only fought monsters." Jaskier asks, surprised.

“We do.” Geralt frowns at Lambert. 

“Okay, hear me out though - I’ve been here for a couple days already and there is _definitely_ a zmeneistar in the mountains somewhere. The yellow grass, the poisoned wells, the missing livestock. I’m pretty fucking sure it’s in that fort.”

“Classic. Well, killing the zmeneistar won’t help the lord’s much but it’ll get me fucking paid.” Lambert rolls his shoulder, a lazy display of musculature that Jaskier tries very hard not to appreciate. “Might be worth killing Poloz too, so’s we’ve actually _solved_ the problem.”

They are interrupted by the arrival of a middle aged man who takes a seat at their table without asking. He is clean cut, with a military bearing, his clothes plain but tidy and well-kept.

“Sir Witchers." He begins politely, "My name is Semyonich. I have come to plead on behalf of the zmeneistar.” He is afraid - even Jaskier can tell as much - but he sits straight-backed before them.

They are all a little taken aback by the man’s arrival.

“Speak.” Geralt allows.

“The zmeneistar has brought prosperity to this town. You may have found some livestock eaten, perhaps some ruined grass, but to the people of Sysert these are easy costs to bear. The mine, you may have heard, is producing gold now.”

“Lord Bazhov mentioned it.”

“It’s true, and it would not be if not for the monster.”  
“Sounds like you know who it is.” Lambert drawls.

Semyonich blinks. “No.”

“Liar.” Lambert spits out, grinning. 

“The knowledge will not do you any good.” The man says stiffly. “I would not betray the zmeneistar for anything.” 

“I’ve heard that before.” 

“Who are you?” Geralt asks, directing Lambert away from this dangerous line of questioning. Jaskier is grateful.

“I’m from Sysert, though I left it for a time under.. Unfortunate circumstances. I was a soldier of fortune, a would-be scholar, until I came home to make things right. I know enough herbalism to be of use to the townspeople in that regard.”

Geralt only grunts.

“And, now, I help them by coming before you. Most townspeople are too intimidated to speak up, but they do not wish the zmenistar to be killed either. They hid her from Barozh’s men and they would do so again.”

“I’ve never hunted a zmeneistar before,” Lambert ignores the man, looking eager. “It’s been nothing but lesser ogroids and necrophages for _months_ now.”

“No.” Geralt says, low and serious.

“You’re so goddamned _soft._ ”He glares at Geralt, seemingly furious again. “Why do you get to hunt all the cool monsters? What makes _you_ so special?” 

Geralt only growls, low in his throat.

Lambert stands, spreads his arms and demands, “What are you going to do, stop me?”

“ _No_.” Geralt grits out. He looks properly murderous, but he’s not getting out of his chair. 

Jaskier thinks that maybe Lambert wants him to. Semyonich buries his face in his hands, despondent.

It’s at this critical moment that a small boy bursts out from the common room. The door bounces off the wall and the innkeeper squawks in outrage but the boy pays him no heed, instead charging over to their table.

“Papa!” he cries. “They took her! The bandits took mama!”

“What?” Semyonich’s face goes grey, but his hands are gentle when they rest on his son’s face. “What did they say?” 

“They want her to make gold for them! Before the Witcher kills her - Papa it’s not true, right? You said the Witchers wouldn’t hurt her!” The boy breaks down into frightened tears, and it’s long moments before anyone at the table can do anything but uncomfortably avoid eye contact with one another while the boy sobs.

“We’ll get your wife back.” Geralt promises, standing and leaving for the barn. 

“And how will we get _paid._ ” Lambert demands, following close behind him.

“Either the zmeneistar will reward us, or we can work out a trophy we can take back without killing her.” Geralt says, low and insistent. “Or we track Poloz’s treasure down, I don’t know, but I’m not killing a woman because a lord one week’s travel away doesn’t like the rumours he heard.”

“ _Fine.”_ Lambert sighs, irritated.

"Cheer up, this one should still be good, even split two ways." Geralt smacks him in the stomach affectionately.

"Or three?" Jaskier proposes.

"What _exactly_ will you be doing to earn it?" Lambert looks at him like he's offered to grow an extra head.

“I could be bait.” He suggests, cool and casual. 

He does not want to be bait, but he doesn't want to be left behind either, not tonight or forever - especially not in this shit town hungry for the price on his head. And he figures he needs to prove his worth _somehow_.

There is a pause while both men consider it.

“He _does_ have that price on his head.” Lambert nods.

 _“No.”_ Geralt growls.

"Doesn't make it a bad plan just because he's your pet."

And Jaskier does take offense at that but there is something thrilling in the way they stare each other down. A lot is being said without any words. Geralt’s nostrils flare and the whites of Lambert’s eyes have been black for a full minute. Both of their hackles are up, normal human posturing taken one step further by the way their bodies seem to grow into it.

"Are you.. Is this like, a Witcher thing? Do you want me to leave?" He asks, eventually.

"It's fine." Geralt snaps, finally settling down though his eyes never leaveLambert's. "I'm taking him in though, not you."

"That's fine. Don't want the little squirt anyways.”

“You’ll take the upper reinforcements then?”

“Yeah, I’ll get all the archers, then it’ll just be a melee. With any luck they’ll keep all the saltpeter in a giant pile and we can detonate it with the right agent.”

“Can you do it without getting caught?”  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been hanging out with this guy from the Cat School and he taught me some stuff. I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier tries to swallow his worries.

  
  


The plan is to leave just before sundown so they can fight them in the dark. 

"Gives us an advantage that way." Lambert says, munching on dried meat. "Humans can't see in the dark for shit. If we're lucky they'll even be halfway drunk too."

That means waiting, back at the stables where the innkeeper won't try and shoo them out. Sometimes when they’re waiting, Geralt will meditate, or brew fascinating, disgusting concoctions. Jaskier prefers the latter, especially when they're in the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing else to do but watch, although even then the Witcher is never too chatty. Today, however, Geralt seems unwilling to let Lambert go unsupervised, so they're playing Gwent in the stables. Jaskier likes to fiddle with his lute when he’s not playing, but whenever Geralt loses he spends the time obsessively checking gear and pacing. 

“I wonder what it takes to get a Gwent card made of you?” Lambert muses, throwing down a _Triss Merigold_ on the plank balanced on an overturned bucket that's serving as their table. His ranged line is looking lethal.

“I knew someone at Oxenfurt who works with the guy who makes Gwent decks.” Jaskier says. “He helped make the first Nilfgard faction, in the Season of the Bear generation? It was mostly figures Temerians would recognize from ballads and newscriers and stuff.”

‘How cool would that be? Playing some guy and he throws down a card and it’s _you_.”

“You’d want to be beaten by your own card?” Geralt asks, focused on rearranging the cards in his hand, not that it’ll do much good. Jaskier can see his lineup up and it’s total shit.

“No, obviously I’d still _win_ -”

“So you want your card to be _bad?_ ” Geralt replies.

“Look motherfucker, when my hero card is so sought after you can’t even _buy_ a copy, we’ll see who’s laughing.” Lambert warns ominously, throwing down his hand..

“Mhm.”

Lambert flips him off as he stomps in the direction of the privy. Victory Geralt.

Instead of shuffling his deck, Geralt picks up their table, such as it is, and places it closer to the barn wall.

“C’mere. I want to make sure you’re ready for tonight.” He beckons Jaskier over.

Jaskier follows, because he does not feel ready for tonight.

“Do you know how to take a punch?” Geralt begins, ominously.

“Well I don’t know how I compare against others, but I’ve been told I’m very punch _able_.”

“Hm.”

“So are we doing this?” Jaskier says, putting his fists up, jabbing the air as though testing its resistance. “Are you going to teach me how to fight Witcher-style?”

Geralt looked very tired.

“I’m going to show you how to roll with a punch in case they try to rough you up a little. Try punching me-”

Jaskier wants to show he’s game, so he does. He hits Geralt square in the mouth. He hadn’t actually thought he’d land the punch, and so while he isn’t the best judge he knows it was much harder than he’d meant it to be.

“ _Fuck!_ Geralt, I’m sorry, shit. I thought you were going to roll with it! Why didn’t you dodge?” He feels very badly about hitting his friend. “Fuck, my hand hurts. Are you okay?”

The Witcher collects himself for a moment, waving off Jaskier’s apologies. 

“Try punching me _slowly_ and I’ll show you how I’d roll with it.” He says, wiping a smear of blood from his lip.

“Oh.”

Jaskier goes to punch him again, slow and exaggerated, aiming generally for his face. Geralt demonstrates how he would turn with the blow, equally exaggerated, and Jaskier tries not to be distracted by the blood spilling over the Witcher’s teeth. 

It's a dreadfully fraught hour that follows. For all his expectations, Geralt is a surprisingly patient teacher. He’s also exceedingly hands-on. Jaskier does not remember his tutors being so tactile.

“If a hit is coming for your torso, try to tighten up your core against it, right here.” He lays a large hand against Jaskier’s belly. “Press against my hand.”

Jaskier obediently clenches the relevant muscle groups, horribly aware of how much of his waist fits between Geralt’s palms. 

“Good.” The Witcher slaps his stomach, testing. “Let’s try.”

Jaskier prepares nervously for a light beating, remembering the educational canings his tutors had supplied, but the Witcher is again, surprisingly gentle. His jabs are quick but light, never so fast as to be overwhelming, and Jaskier doubts he’ll even bruise.

"I can’t let you go in armed, but anything can be a weapon. How good are you at throwing?”

“I would say that I am average at throwing but _excellent_ at dodging.”

Geralt frowns. 

“Look around. What can you see that would throw at me?” He demands, arms crossed.

Jaskier half-heartedly lists all the objects he feels strong enough to toss.

“Why can’t I just have a knife?” He asks, reasonably.

“We need them to believe you’re captured for exactly as long as it takes for Lambert to clear the wall, and then you run and hide. As long as you’re not a threat they won’t waste time trying to kill you while I’m around.”

“What if you die and I need to-”

“Run.”

“What if I get a sword-”

“ _Run._ ”

“I’m not leaving you to _die.”_ Jaskier insists.

“Yes, you will. It’s not about honour, it’s about staying alive.”

“What if I _can’t_ run away, but I _do_ get a sword and I’m going down in an epic last stand type of situation?”

“You’re not -” Geralt stops and tries again, frustrated. “I don’t want - Fine.”

He selects a sword from the small bundle of swords he keeps to sell between towns. It’s mid-length, chipped along the edges. The grip is plain but comfortable in his hand. It’s a Lyrian blade, more for chopping than for thrusting, but he was only ever taught to duel like a gentleman so he settles into the Temerian fencing stance he vaguely remembers being taught as a child. He tries a couple lunges, certain he’s got the foot placement wrong.

Geralt still looks impressed, which is kind of insulting.

Geralt walks around him, eye critical. He corrects Jaskier’s step with a casual nudge of the foot, settles his shoulders lower. 

“Have you trained with a shield?”

“I trained exactly as hard as it took for my mother to let me go to Oxenfurt.” He jabs the sword forward experimentally. 

“That’s a no.” He adds, when the Witcher looks at him questioningly. 

Geralt walks him through a couple of more functional strikes, has him repeat them over and over again, still stepping in frequently to move his body around like that’s something they do now.

Jaskier is enjoying the attention, of course he is. Still, he isn't sure any amount of training could turn him into a man capable of being genuinely useful in a fight like this. Geralt cuts down enemies like a fox tearing through a henhouse, and he's frankly more worried that he'd get in the way by trying to help. Geralt, in fairness, does seem to recognize this. A lot of the training focuses on running away.

"If someone levels a bow at you, just run. Especially if there's forest nearby. Most people can't hit a moving target from ten paces.”

“He’s gonna be trapped inside the fort with the rest of us though.” Lambert calls over, now munching on an apple. “Nowhere to run.”

“Thanks, Lambert. That really helps me feel better about all this, with you.” Jaskier calls back.

Lambert shrugs. “I should have all the archers out of the way before you need to run.”

“If he doesn’t, duck behind cover and stay down. Try and get as far away from the fighting as you can.” Geralt adds.

“Doesn’t it make more sense to stay close to you?” Jaskier asks, picturing himself getting run through while he’s crouching behind some barrier. 

“I’ll be watching for you. Anywhere you run.” Geralt says very seriously. “I’ll be able to find you.”

Jaskier tries not to read into it.

“But most importantly - do whatever it takes to stay alive. It’s not about honour, it’s about staying alive.” Geralt adds. He's been telling him this a lot, like he thinks Jaskier would die for something as malleable as _honour._ He is increasingly aware that he might be willing to die for Geralt, however.

Then Geralt makes him run through the drills again, a cure for love if there ever was one. He paces around, offering corrections and helpful advice while Jaskier sweats.

“If I throw a grenade I'll yell, and that'll be your cue to duck. Don't look at the explosion-”

"Or I'll go blind, yeah, I get it. You've only told me a thousand times already." He lunges at the wooden support beam again, forgetting to turn his foot out again. Geralt scowls.

“Take this _seriously._ ” 

“I am!"

“No you _aren’t._ ” He insists.

Jaskier - see - he’s not _mad_ at Geralt, exactly, but he is getting seriously annoyed. Given how much use all this training is going to be he’d much rather be sitting playing cards. 

So when the opportunity presents itself.. Well. Geralt steps beside him to adjust his posture, _again_ , but he’s half-distracted by trying to see what Lambert is doing over by Roach. Jaskier twists; with one foot already planted behind Geralt knocking him over is a simple matter of driving his elbow into the Witcher’s chest and shoving him backwards. It’s the surprise more than anything that gets him, but that doesn’t make Jaskier any less pleased when he falls very satisfyingly onto the pile of hay behind him.

“It’s not about honour, it’s about staying alive.” Jaskier says smugly, touching the tip of his blade to Geralt’s throat. He raises it, careful and controlled, tilting Geralt’s chin up. The expression on Geralt’s face is _deliciously_ confounded. He lets the moment stretch, savouring it - the hint of a snarl, the unblinking glare - enjoying staring Geralt down.

Lambert's sniggering breaks the tension. Geralt bats the sword away, looking annoyed but not particularly vengeful. 

“Keep practicing.” The Witcher says, stomping over to Roach to root through his sack of scavenged equipment again.

He comes back ten minutes later with an armful of mismatched armour. It’s of varying quality and sizes. 

“I don’t think any of this is going to help me run any faster." Jaskier picks through it. "Though I do like the idea of being harder to shoot."

"No one is going to be _able_ to shoot you." Lambert shouts crankily from across the barn.

There’s a padded leather jacket he likes and he shrugs it on experimentally.

"Hm. Lift your foot up.” Geralt kneels down and guides a padded chausse up his leg. Jaskier wobbles a little on one foot and puts a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder for balance. Geralt doesn’t even shift with the added weight, sturdy as always. Thankfully, he lets Jaskier tie the chausses to his belt himself. The quilted, stocking-like garment fits loosely, though it ends only midway up his thigh. When Geralt wraps his hands around Jaskier’s whole thigh to assess the fit, Jaskier thinks he might just die from how much blood leaves his head. His mouth goes dry holding back all the stupid thoughts suggesting themselves. Geralt clears his throat awkwardly, stepping back, not meeting Jaskier’s eyes. 

“Now this.” He holds out a slightly rusty mail hauberk. 

Jaskier is actually thankful Lambert wanders over, a worrying glint in his eye. 

"You can't put the kid in fucking chainmail, it'll look suspicious as hell.” He plucks at the heavy garment with a slight jingle.

"I'm not handing him over in a shirt." Geralt growls. "You can give him the chausses and _maybe_ the jacket." Lambert allows. “ _Maybe_ some bracers-”

"How the hell is _leather_ going to stop him getting shot." 

"He's not gonna get shot because I'm gonna take out all the archers." Lambert snipes back and then Lambert is in Jaskier’s space, unlacing his ill-fitted armour like it's his right, and fuck it if Jaskier doesn't find it a little bit hot. 

_"Lambert_. Fuck off." Geralt snarls.

The two of them are looming over him like dogs snapping over a damn bone and it's.. a lot.

"He doesn't mind, he -" Lambert pauses with his hand pinning Jaskier's forearm up, nostrils flaring. "Oh, you're _into_ this, aren't you?" 

Inwardly, Jaskier squirms with embarrassment, but he sure as hell isn't going to give Lambert the satisfaction.

"And?" He says, coolly as he can manage.

"Well I'm just saying, as awesome as playing Gwent and listening to Geralt pace is…”

“..What?” 

“Wanna fuck in the tack room?” Lambert offers.

Jaskier can hear Geralt choke on his own tongue, which is only half of the reason he looks Lambert up and down meaningfully and says, “Sure.”

“Yo, Gary-boy, are you coming?” Lambert asks cheerfully, slapping his stomach.

Jaskier doesn’t want to flatter himself, but he’s pretty sure that the meaningful lip-bite he shoots Geralt is the only reason he stalks in after them.

“Front or back?” Lambert asks Geralt cheerfully, tugging Jaskier’s ass against his crotch. Jaskier really needs to start having higher standards in men.

“Whatever Jaskier wants.” Geralt says stiffly, struggling to make eye contact, which only makes him want to tease the Witcher more. 

He pretended to hum thoughtfully, arching his back as Lambert gets grabby with him, grinding what had better be part jockstrap against his ass. He _is_ enjoying the feeling of being groped, but when he moans it’s entirely for Geralt’s benefit. The Witcher doesn’t seem to know where to look.

“Geralt can have my mouth,” he decides, because he trusts him not to just fuck his throat and because “I know for a fact he’s bathed recently. You, I am not so sure about.”

Lambert only laughs goodnaturedly, pawing at Jaskier’s ties. He hadn’t _planned_ on bottoming today, but he’s also been too nervous to really eat, so.. 

“I can _see_ your fingernails.” He says, plucking the oil from Lambert’s grimy hands. Even if they weren’t tipped with _literal_ claws he wouldn’t let the damn things near his asshole. He kneels on a hay bale and spends some time opening himself up. He tries to be efficient; the other Witchers are clearly awkward and honestly he’s pretty eager himself. He passes the oil back to Lambert, moans a little just to watch Geralt trying not to stare at him.

It’s a real moan that gets knocked out of him when Lambert slides in.

“ _Shit_ , you’re tight.” The Witcher moans, thrusting shallowly, his nails sharp where they dig into his hips.

Geralt isn’t even trying not to stare at him.

“Well?” He prompts, raising an eyebrow at the Witcher. 

Geralt moves closer, unlacing his trousers until Jaskier can pull his cock out and _finally_ get his mouth on it. It is, objectively speaking, a nice looking cock, thick and straight and unblemished with an oddly narrow head. He takes it in his mouth, too eager to play at being a tease. The heavy, almost-spoken breath Geralt lets out is very encouraging. Geralt runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair, meeting his eyes as he thrusts into his mouth. 

Jaskier moans as around his mouthful and pulls Geralt in closer. 

Lambert takes this as his cue to start driving into Jaskier with some real purpose. It’s _very_ good, a solid, heavy pounding that has a frisson of pleasure rolling up his spine. 

He pulls off Geralt's cock just long enough to say "Oh _fuck_ yeah, just like that," 

And then Lambert is talking, which is regrettable, all "You like that, don't you baby, huh?" and "you look so good on my big, fat cock."

Jaskier finds himself making powerful eye contact with Geralt and has to duck his head to keep from laughing. He bites his lip to keep the smile from his voice as he moans in agreement, before taking Geralt's cock back between his lips. 

"Shut _up_ Lambert" Geralt growls lazily, finally looking away.

"Hey, fuck you man." He says, really giving it to Jaskier now.

And now that Lambert is distracting him so well (and seriously, how is he this good, he might be the worst man Jaskier has ever met and yet his dick pounds into him _just_ right, filling him up so _good_ and so rough) he can really take Geralt's cock down. He opens his throat up, let's Lambert's thrusts carry him that little bit further until his lips meet Geralt's body. The oddly narrow head of Geralt's cock slides messily up and down his throat and it's lucky he needn't be performing tonight because his voice will be wrecked. Nothing is better at driving out worries than this, than getting the life pounded out of him while he drowns on his best friend's cock. 

Geralt's hand rests softly on his head and it's so sweet that he finds himself winding his hands around Geralt's waistband and pulling him deeper and faster into his mouth. The Witcher's breathing was coming in hot and fast and Jaskier's dick twitched just to hear it.

There's something strange about the base of Geralt's cock, and he seemed to be having a harder time getting his mouth all the way down. He was definitely able to get his lips around it before, but it's swelling at the base

He pulls off to get a closer look, curious, but - Geralt grabs his cock quickly but it's too late, he's coming in thick, hot streaks across Jaskier's face, and he's too surprised to do much more than blink with his mouth open. 

Before he can react or wipe it off Lambert pulls him upright, back arching, hand to his throat, teeth on his ear as he breathes hard like he's sprinting. It’s exquisite. And Jaskier's sure he must look a right mess, lips swollen and wet, face dripping with come, but apparently he's not so filthy that Geralt doesn't step in to wrap a hand around Jaskier's dripping cock. Geralt's eyes are blown wide, so dark they almost don’t look gold anymore, and he's watching Jaskier so closely he nearly comes just from the attention. It's his hand though, big and warm and just the right speed of _fast_ that brings him over the edge. He comes so hard his legs go numb, spilling all over Geralt's hand and probably his shirt too but fuck it, what does he care. Lambert finishes some time around then too, hand still firmly around his throat. 

They disentangle themselves from one another quickly, still out of breath, racing to get back to normal now they've all finished. Casual sex is always weirdest right when it ends. Lambert smacks his ass on his way out of the tack room and then it's just Jaskier and Geralt alone and hastily dressed. Geralt's nostrils flare and Jaskier can’t tell what he’s thinking.

"You all good?" Geralt asks, voice a low rumble from deep underground.

"Yeah. Do I have any come on my face still?” His casual tone is mostly bravado - he doesn’t entirely know what to make of what just happened, except that it was fun, and he’d do it again, and he feels a little vulnerable about it. He is not at all prepared for Geralt to step into his space and gently wipe his cheek with his shirt cuff. He tilts Jaskier’s chin to the side, eyes roving over his face with more care than Jaskier had expected him to devote to the task.

Geralt steps back with a nod of approval. 

“Sorry.” He smiles shyly. 

“Thank _you,_ ” Jaskier replies with a salacious grin.

And things go back to normal.

The ride to the encampment is shockingly brief, scarcely half an hour from the village centre. Jaskier is allowed to ride Roach, although honestly, right now, he would rather not. But apparently torches are a forbidden luxury in this sparsely forested nightscape, and even Roach can see in the dark better than him. He shifts uncomfortably in the saddle, regretting some of his decisions. Roach huffs, irritated with his movement, but fortunately Geralt is holding her reins firmly in hand.

They wait in the forest, around the bend from where the hill rises up and the clear land lying before the fort begins. 

"The main thing is that we wait for Lambert's signal." Geralt keeps insisting.

“What’s that going to be?” 

Geralt shrugs. “I’ll recognize it.”

_Helpful._

They wait in silence. The moon is _just_ bright enough that Jaskier can see how intensely Geralt is focusing on the fort through the break in the trees. It’s much, much too quiet.

“So, I was asking Lambert about Witcher stuff, but I don’t think he was telling the truth.” 

Geralt doesn’t reply, but from the way his jaw tightens Jaskier thinks he might be screaming on the inside. 

“Has there ever been a Witcher named Garrus Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde who was killed and eaten by a cockatrice on his first day out of the academy?”

“No.”

“Is there a Bat School of Witchers that only come out at night and sleep hanging upside-down?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do Witchers from the Viper School all have two cocks?”

“That.. could be true, actually.”

Jaskier isn’t sure what to say to that. He thinks Geralt might be messing with him, but it’s impossible to tell with him being all deadpan and serious. Their conversation is, tragically, cut short by a very faint bird noise that Geralt seems to take as their signal to move. 

He lights a torch to give the archers something to track as they wind their way up the track to the fort. With the light they can reverses their roles with Geralt riding, Jaskier tripping along behind him in the flickering light. His hands are bound as loosely as Geralt dared, the rope wound around Roach’s saddlehorn. The fort looms large up above them, and Jaskier prays.


	2. Lone Wolves Live Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt really, really hates this plan.

“The really _essential_ point is that we cannot give up the act until Lambert clears the walls.” He meets Jaskier’s eyes in the torchlight, trying to drive the point home. They are warm and blue and regarding him with an innappropriate amount of mirth.

“I’m sorry, I missed that - what is the essential point? I remember you saying something about a hundred times but I’m afraid I _just_ wasn’t paying attention.”

“We wait for Lambert or they’ll shoot us. Do you understand?” Geralt insists, willing him to be serious about this.

“ _Yes_ , I understand, Geralt, honestly. I performed matinees in the Oxenfurt Rose, I can handle this.” He says flippantly, faint smile playing attractively across his lips.

Geralt _looks_ at him, anxious and angry about it.

“I’ll be _fine_ , I won’t break character, I _promise_.” Jaskier says more seriously. It occurs to Geralt that he’s never kissed Jaskier. 

He turns back to Roach and checks over their supplies one last time.

Geralt doesn’t want to assault this stupid fort, but anything is better than this, than fucking sitting around waiting next to Jaskier while he smells like he was fucked twenty minutes ago. It’s weird enough catching the olfactory aftermath of Jaskier’s escapades at the best of times, but he’s never been the one actually having the sex with Jaskier. It’s a lot different, smelling _his_ come on Jaskier and knowing what his mouth feels like, knowing what he looks like when he’s being fucked within an inch of his life. Jaskier's crush on him had been cute, in an annoying sort of way, and maybe he'd come to enjoy the faint taste of arousal that wafted around him at the most random times, like when he was patting down Roach or coming back from a hunt. He’d originally considered Jaskier to be good-looking in a slightly abstract way, but recent events had forced him to reassess his opinion of the man. He couldn't get the sight of him holding a sword to Geralt's throat out of his mind. And now that he knew what he looked like painted with come.. It was possible that he was getting far more attached than was strictly wise. Which meant they had to part ways as soon as possible, which meant that he had to deal with this Poloz Malachite situation. Which brings him back to the plan.

Geralt hates this plan. There are too many variables for him to keep track of in the middle of a fight. The zmeneistar, if she's still alive, could be a serious handicap. He likely won't be able to free her until the fight ends, and if these bandits are smart they'll try to use her as a hostage. Lambert is a Witcher but Geralt doesn't remember him being exceptionally talented. Plus he's young and eager to prove himself, too ready to take on risks. And Jaskier - well. The bard worries him the most. He makes Lambert look wise and patient, and he has none of the latter's mutations. If he gets injured none of Geralt's potions will save him. And they're all trusting _him_. It puts his teeth on edge; there's a _reason_ he works alone.

The plan has two major points of failure that he can see. First, there’s a possibility that they won’t be able to talk their way into the fort at all. The second is that Lambert won’t be able to get onto the walls and they’ll be shot long before Geralt can carve his way up there himself. It’s imperative that they distract as much attention away from the walls as they enter the fort. 

Fortunately, Jaskier is a fantastic showman. 

“Sir? Witcher, sir? I am begging you, please, please do not do this.” Jaskier pleads loudly in an even posher accent than usual. “I will give you _anything,_ and I mean _anything._ ”

His stomach twists a little and even this slight distraction makes him furious. He glares ferociously at the road, using it to get in character.

"Nononono - look, okay? Wait. _Wait."_ Jaskier tugs against the rope bindings his hands and Roach snorts, irritated. "My papa is a very important man, Witcher, and very respected in Lyden. He would pay a lot of money for my safety. You like _money_ , right? You're poor, but you're not _stupid_ -"

Geralt smacks him with a glove for verisimilitude.

"Shaddup." He yells coarsely.

" _Ow_ \- you fucking _brute!_ You stupid fucking son of a whore, my papa's men would _beat_ you for that!"

Jaskier carries on like this, alternating between lordly threats and insulting bribes as they wind their way up to the fort until there can't be a man inside who doesn't want to slap him silly. It certainly draws the men on the wall forward to watch the show. It would almost be fun if not for how Geralt worries about him playing the role too well. These are bored and lawless men and that makes them incredibly dangerous. Still, he plays along, sick with himself.

" _Enough_." He roars, smacking Jaskier as lightly as he fucking can without giving it away. Jaskier rolls with the blow admirably, crying out with exaggerated outrage.

While Jaskier tearfully threatens to see him hanged, Geralt dismounts and pounds on the keep door.

"I'm here to collect a bounty." He pronounces loudly to the man who peers through the eye slot. 

"Is that the bard what took our treasure?" The bandit asks excitedly. "One moment."

Two archers stare down over the parapets, twelve feet above them, looking interested. There is some shouting and stomping about behind the gates as they put together a welcome party. Geralt thinks he can count twelve men from the commotion, but he can't be sure. 

Three men open the door up, looking wary. He stands far enough back that they have to walk several paces towards him, giving as unobstructed a view to the archers as possible. A third archer has joined the other two in looking over the wall, while standing a little ways off towards his post. Geralt assesses their threat value quickly: arms well maintained, armour mismatched and scavenged, probably from foot soldiers and the occasional officer. They are professional bandits, practiced and comfortable with their gear. More importantly, their armour has been hastily put on - Geralt can see more than one loose strap or askew helmet. Armour is uncomfortable and it is past the hours that most people like to travel; with luck, no one else in the camp will be suited up for battle. 

The oldest of the three men, a grizzled Kaedwenian with a competent air about him, tries to compare Jaskier’s face to the sketch in the wanted poster. Geralt briefly wonders what would happen if they decided Jaskier wasn’t a close enough match. Could he fight his way into the open door before the archers got him? Maybe, but Roach and Jaskier would certainly be killed, which is precisely why he doesn’t like taking company with him. 

The senior bandit holds a torch up close to inspect Jaskier’s, and he shies away, squalling about the heat. The bandit slaps him firmly and grips his face to keep him steady. Geralt can’t quite suppress the low growl building in his throat.

“That’s him for sure!” The youngest bandit, a blonde boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, says confidently. “Saw him performing in Lyden.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a bard - why’s he got so much armour on him?” 

“Found him with a sword and a couple of toughs in Lyden. I think he was trying to protect himself from bounty hunters.” Geralt offers.

“Stupid.” The man laughs, “Should’ve just taken the money and run. That’s him, anyways, no doubt about it. Don’t suppose you know where the gold he stole is?”

Geralt tilts his head noncommittally. “Not exactly, but there are some leads Poloz will be interested in. I also incurred a fine in Lyden catching the brat. I want to speak to Poloz about that too.”

The eldest man considers it. “The boss don’t usually cover expenses. But then, I suppose he don’t usually hire outside help neither. Normally we’d handle this kind of thing in house, but what with ol’ Lord Barozh sending his dogs around..”

He shrugs and turns to lead Geralt into the fort. “Leave your horse out here, I don’t want to open the gates up this late. The boys’ll watch for any wolves or such from the walls.”

Geralt grunts. 

“Here, pass me the ropes.” The man holds a hand out presumptuously. 

“No.” Geralt states simply, and Jaskier relaxes a little behind him. “I want to hand him over myself before you bastards get a piece of him. Like I said, I have more info to sell your lord.”

“Suit yourself.” The man shrugs, though Geralt can tell it displeases him. _Let it_.

The walls of the fort show evidence of semi-skilled repair, but the keep itself has been largely abandoned to nature. The crumbling architecture is probably only used for storage, if it’s used at all. The zmeneistar he finds quickly. She’s in bad shape, battered and bruised in an iron cage. If he wasn’t already going to slaughter everyone here, that would have convinced him. She looks up to see him pass, eyes glittering in the dark. 

Poloz Malachite, when they are led before him, looks exactly like Geralt expected him to. He’s big, the kind of oversized man that could dominate a group like this on size alone. He’s wearing a heavy, sweat-stained undercoat and a breast plate that fits him well. He’s set his throne in the centre of the courtyard; with the state of the stonework Geralt imagines that’s a reasonable safety precaution. The rest of the quarters are divided between wooden outbuildings and canvas tents. He mentally revises his count to seventeen men, five on the walls, plus an eighteenth sleeping on a cot who might be too injured to fight. The hard-faced woman turning meat over a spit might join in to defend her fellows, but the frightened girl beside her will run. It’s a manageable fight. Geralt is deeply grateful that this band is not the kind to have brought in their families and children. 

Geralt smells blood, just faintly, and counts it down to four on the walls.

“A Witcher!” Poloz cries out amiably, setting his tankard down. The men not engaged in useful tasks have also been drinking, although only a few look truly inebriated. 

“I must say, I was expecting someone a little more run-of-the-mill to end up bringing him in.”

“Some tried. He’d hired some guards, squirrelled himself away. It was difficult work getting him out.”

“Right, right. I suppose you’ll be wanting something extra for that. How much?” 

“200 orens.” Geralt says, knowing it’s too much, that Poloz will have to haggle him down.

“Done.” Poloz says easily, pulling Jaskier forward by the face and inspecting him closely. _Well shit._ “Was my Azovka there?”

“Alas, she left me a broken-hearted man.” Jaskier sighs with convincing sorrow. “You may do your worst to me, blackguard, but even so I do not regret my actions for they were in the name of true love!”

“At least she showed some taste,” Poloz grumbles, dropping his hand but still watching him with great intent. “Even if she did rob her own Papa. Now how about that treasure? Did she run off with that too?”

Jaskier licks his lips nervously but continues with the performance.

“You want to know where the treasure is?” Jaskier proclaims loudly, catching the eyes of the people around him like a town crier drumming up interest. The whole campsite leans in closer to listen. In the silence, Geralt’s enhanced hearing picks up the distant sound of a blade cutting flesh. The scent of blood in the air grows a little thicker. _Three._

“Do you _really_ want to know where the treasure is?” Jaskier tries to spread his arms dramatically, but is brought up short by his bindings. Most of the bandits are listening closely, caught up in the performance, but Poloz shakes his head and punches him hard in the stomach.

“Stalling. We’ll soften you up a bit first, ask you then.” He chuckles darkly and shoves Jaskier, still wheezing, at his second in command. “Have your fun lads, but if _anyone_ kills him before he tells us where the treasure's hid, I'll flay him myself. And get the Witcher his payment!” 

Around him the bandits perk up like bored dogs catching sight of a cat. Geralt clenches his jaw.

There is no longer any reasonable excuse for Geralt to delay handing Jaskier over, but three archers remain on the parapets. He mentally wills Lambert to _hurry the fuck up_. 

Jaskier looks terrified, and Geralt has the unique pleasure of knowing how little he's faking it. Fear pours off the man in waves, setting his teeth on edge. 

The bandit who caught Jaskier pushes him towards an open patch of dirt roughly. He trips over a tentline. With his hands bound, Jaskier can only do so much to catch his fall and he lands hard. The blonde boy who recognized Jaskier takes the opportunity to start gleefully kicking the fallen man. Geralt has been holding himself back with every muscle in his body and he still nearly tears the boy into shreds on the spot. Anger courses through his bloodstream so strong and so powerful that his body starts shifting, growing stronger and wilder without his consent, but he fights it back. Jaskier tries to curl up, tuck his chin in, but a mean kick takes him full in the mouth before he gets a chance. Geralt keeps a tally of every single blow, intending to take it out in blood. Thus distracted, no one else hears the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground outside the walls. _Two_. 

Other bandits pull Jaskier clear and toss him in the centre of their tiny clearing, forming a loose circle around him. Geralt can see him in glimpses through the screen of bodies. He looks scared and alone. Torches are being set up and with horror Geralt realizes that they are heating a metal implement. Jaskier’s eyes are fixed on the glowing thing as they bring it near him. Poloz has been watching Jaskier’s beating with interest but he looks back at Geralt when the Witcher lets slip a bone chilling growl.

“What’s this then?” He frowns at Geralt, perhaps realizing for the first time the danger he’s in.

Geralt spares the man a look and Jaskier cries out in genuine pain and alarm. The thinning tether holding Geralt back snaps.

There're still two archers on the walls, but Jaskier’s well covered so _fuck it._ He whips his sword from his back and drives it into Poloz Malachite's throat before he even fully realizes he's been betrayed. 

The cries of alarm start quickly, spreading from one bandit to the next. Two arrows sink into his shoulder but he can't find it in himself to regret it. Sword drawn, teeth bared, he tears into the bandits. A few more devoted men jump quickly into his path, holding him back from where he saw Jaskier last. One by one they fall to his sword, killed or incapacitated, he cares little. The injury to his left shoulder weakens his grip so he fights one-handed, compensates by throwing his weight behind each attack. It’s too dark to see the arrow skims past his head, tearing a line of hot pain over his scalp that he barely acknowledges. Another takes a bandit standing too close to him in the neck, and then there aren’t any more arrows being shot at all. _Where is Lambert?_ He swings his sword into one bandit’s neck so hard he beheads the man entirely. With the followthrough he knocks a heavy warhammer blow of its course. Its wielder is off-balance but he’s still able to block Geralt’s strikes and he’s unable to penetrate the bandit’s guard with his next blow. Impatient, he blasts him backward with a sign. He flips his sword grip and drives the blade through the fallen man’s chest in passing. His shoulder throbs. 

There’s a large explosion by the wall and everyone turns to look. It seems Lambert has found where they stored their saltpeter. Geralt takes advantage of the pause in battle to down some potions, Cat and Thunderbolt. His stomach burns with the poison but he needs to strike hard and fast, toxicity be damned. 

The world gets even brighter, shadows receding until nearly the whole courtyard is visible. Jaskier is being dragged backwards by a couple bandits making an escape, which is good: they’ve recognized his value as a source of information. Of course, they cannot be allowed to ride off, though several men are in his path.

It’s at this point that Lambert catches up.

“What the fuck, man?” He asks, putting his back to Geralt’s to face the five men who are grouping up to make a stand. “What happened to the plan?”

“It was taking too long.” He calls back, catching three men alight with a burst of Igni.

Amid the screams and smell of burning cloth he presses forward. With Lambert guarding his weak side he can afford more caution, but Jaskier can’t, so he rams through their faltering formation. He takes more damage than he should but that’s fine because their resistance crumbles against his onslaught. 

Trusting Lambert to deal with the others, he charges over to the idiots trying to throw Jaskier onto a panicking horse. To his credit, the bard is fighting back hard, kicking out with his feet as they try to lift him. Geralt grabs a sword from a fallen bandit as he runs and throws it hard at the one trying to pin Jaskier from behind. The blade whips through the air and lodges firmly in the man’s back. He drops Jaskier with a cry and falls to his knees. Geralt beheads him easily.

He knows he looks like a feral shadow, knows he has teeth and claws and the wrong colours in his eyes. The last bandit turns in abject horror, his sword faltering as he raises it. Geralt cuts him down. Jaskier looks up at him with nothing but joy and relief. His grin is compelling; Geralt feels his whole body light up in response to it. A warm glow suffuses him and he wants, oh how he _wants_. It takes genuine physical effort to drop Jaskier’s hand once he’s helped him up. He wants to carry the bard back to town, back to safety, back to where he can lock a door behind them and be alone with him and look over every injury twice. The pain of resisting that instinct cuts into him like a knife, and he sets his teeth against it. It will get easier. 

But Jaskier looks so _tired_ , so young and so vulnerable. He stands there amid the smouldering wreckage of the keep, spattered with the blood of other men, men Geralt has killed to keep him alive, grinning at him. His nose is bloody and his face is still red and puffy where he’s been struck. Every nerve in Geralt’s body is crying out to take Jaskier in his arms, to hold him close and keep him _safe_. His body trembles with it, but he knows that if he touches Jaskier now he’ll never let him go.

“Are you okay? Usually it doesn’t take you this long to come down,” Jaskier steps up close to him, concerned. “Also you’re bleeding kind of a lot.” The bard lays a careful hand on his neck and he shudders, eyes closing against the sudden influx of impulse and instinct. 

Most of his potion effects have faded, leaving behind only traces of black poison in his veins, but still he’s shifted. His claws haven’t retracted, his shoulders are too broad; the world is sharp and grey and he isn’t meant to stay like this for so long. He breathes deeply, fighting to calm himself despite the traces of Jaskier’s scent and Jaskier’s fear and Jaskier’s exhaustion that flow over his enhanced palate. His joints _ache_ , and he feels so _tired_. 

Jaskier runs his thumb over Geralt’s jaw, careful and gentle like nothing ever is and it’s too much, too much - he catches Jaskier’s wrist and pushes the hand back, unable to speak, to explain that he will shatter if Jaskier touches him with kindness even a second longer. 

Jaskier takes his hand back, murmurs something about checking on the woman and it’s easier when he steps away.

Geralt moves upwind and closes his eyes, counts his breaths until his body settles back down to its normal shape. He feels hollowed out, drained. Everything is darker now that the effects of Cat have faded but the world still seems colourless. He looks for survivors, weighing the dangers of letting them live, both to the town and to the zmeneistar, and is pleased to see that there are none. The two women are nowhere to be seen; hopefully they did not run into further danger in the night. Only one young man still breathes, eyes glassy, clutching the stump of a hand against a deep belly wound. Geralt calms him with a sign and cuts his throat. It never feels like mercy.

In their first bit of good luck all night, Lambert finds a sizable stash of gold in Poloz Malachite’s tent. He shows them eagerly and sets to dividing it, although he threatens to keep all of it the whole while. Geralt picks up a piece, weighs it in his hand. Some of the gold has been hammered into coins that look roughly like standard currency, but most is in strange, perfectly regular spheres, like pearls. He’s not an expert in mineral extraction, but he’s never heard of a raw nugget that looked like that. The legends about zmeneistar are true, it seems.

It’s Jaskier that finds the key to the zmeneistar’s cage, in the pocket of the man who greeted them. He passes it quietly to Geralt while Lambert is distracted. When he opens the door the woman shrinks back, clearly terrified, and it takes some coaxing to bring her out. The cuts and bruises he can’t do much for, but he sets her broken arm and binds it to an improvised splint. He does not want to kill her, doesn’t see much reason to. 

“Let her be, Lambert.” He orders when the other Witcher approaches, a simple bandage around his hand covering the only injury _he_ managed to sustain.

Lambert only rolls his eyes and says, “Soft bastard. Do you want help getting those arrows out of your shoulder, or are you planning on making friends with those as well?”

“Hm.” He responds flatly, but he lets Lambert snap the arrow shafts and dig the heads out of his shoulder. It hurts like shit. Jaskier hovers for a moment, turns green and spends the rest of the time going through the tents mercifully far away.

The walk back to town is miserable. Before they’ve made it ten meters from the gates, the woman riding Roach, Geralt struggling to avoid Jaskier without making it seem deliberate, the wind picks up. The sky grows cloudy and dark and a cold rain chases them through the thin forest. The padded layers under his armour grow wet and heavy and a persistent trickle of water rolls down his back no matter how he adjusts his collar. He’s already drunk too many potions for a dose of Cat so he has to rely on his enhanced eyesight as they stumble through the darkness. The only good thing is that the rain dampens the scent of Jaskier’s misery as he shivers several paces behind him. Geralt clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt.

He hates Lambert for getting them in this mess. Lambert could never _fucking_ leave well enough alone. He just _had_ to try and stir the pot, just _had_ to try and needle at Geralt, just _had_ to arrange for a fucking threeway in the goddamn stables and tip his world on end. To be fair he also blames Jaskier, not for saying yes or for going down on him like it was the last thing he’d ever do but just for being _around_ . For being interesting and dumb and so incredibly attractive when he was holding Geralt at swordpoint that his heart might’ve stopped beating entirely. Something deep inside him curled loops around itself in joy when someone bested him. _Why_? Why did he want to roll on his fucking back like a dog for Jaskier the second his sword touched his throat? 

Because actually, honestly, this whole mess was Geralt's fault. It was his fault for letting Jaskier tag along in the first place, for underestimating him until he had the chance to bury under his skin like a tick. He has to leave tomorrow. Maybe he should do it early, in secret, before Jaskier has a chance to win him over again with his big blue eyes and his coltish charm. Roach shakes her head like she senses his thoughts and he pats her flank. At least he won't be completely alone when he goes.

  
  


When they return to the inn, tired and soaking wet, Semyonich and his son are inside waiting for them. The reunion of mother and family is heartwarming, it really is, and ordinarily he'd try and savour that a little bit but right now all he wants is to sit in a tub and drink himself to sleep. He wants to forget what Jaskier smells like and maybe sleep until noon. Fortunately, the innkeeper suddenly remembers he has several spare rooms, actually, and would they like to pay only double the standard right to stay in them? It’s a testament to how tired they all are that nobody even tries to haggle him down. 

Geralt guiltily imagines how drained Jaskier must be. A part of him itches to treat the cuts and burns on Jaskier's skin, but he shuts it down ruthlessly. A Witcher knows when to let others fend for themselves. Instead he stalks off to the stables and brushes Roach down until the urge to herd Jaskier onto a bed and count his bruises subsides.

Geralt's room is across the hall from both Lambert and Jaskier's, so when he settles into his bath he genuinely can't tell which of them is splashing at any given moment. It's something like peace, a reprieve from the incessant thoughts of _get everyone you love in a single space and protect them_. He's a Witcher, a monster by design and a loner by trade; he’ll get over this stupid _infatuation_ of his.

The tub is disappointing, half full and small at that, but it's fine, really. He’s had worse. He scrubs away the memories of dead boys and dead men and lost women; all in a day's work. He makes plans to hone his steel blade tonight, though it is not so delicate as his silver. It takes him a whole bottle of uncut Temerian rye but by the time the others amble downstairs for a late dinner his senses are so pleasantly dulled that he cannot tell who is who. Normal village noises, the howls and yips and shouts of human inhabitation blend together into meaningless sounds. He imagines the bathing pools of Nenneke's monastery or the hot springs of Cintra. Maybe he'll go there after this. Maybe he'll skip the summer drowner season along the coast and just seek out his favourite bathhouses for a month. Fuck working, he could just rob a caravan along the way and live off his ill-gotten gains until he forgets to hate himself for it. It seemed to work for men. Maybe that's why the Cat school went wrong.

It doesn't take long for the bathwater to cool. Even that's pleasant too, for a while, until the alcohol begins to wear off and instead of a refreshing pool of forgetfulness he's soaking in a lukewarm bucket of dirty water and it stops being enjoyable. He stays in the undersized tub out of stubborness, clinging to the last fragments of luxury while he can. The voices drifting up from below are growing increasingly agitated, making it increasingly difficult. His back hurts from sitting all hunched-up weird and the tub rim digs into his arms. It's miserable, but still.. Something downstairs shatters, and he can identify the shouting voices downstairs with dreadful accuracy. His eyes snap open. He should just stay out of it. Let them fight or fuck or whatever it is they want to do, he thinks. There’s no reason for him to get involved.

With a deep sigh, he heaves himself out of the bath. The voices are getting more agitated by the second and he only gets pants and a shirt on before he gives up and stomps out to the common room, mood foul.

It’s easy to find the source of the commotion. Jaskier and Lambert are standing at opposite sides of a table, chairs thrown back, hurling insults at each other. 

“That’s not how Villentrentenmerth _works_!” Jaskier shouts, face red, throwing his gwent hand onto the table in frustration.”My melee units aren’t above ten!”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, and Roche,” Lambert counts, slamming a finger into the table for each card, “That’s _sixteen._ ”

Geralt has the worst fucking friends.

“Hero cards don’t _count_!” Jaskier yells back at Lambert, incandescent with rage.

“Are you calling me a fucking cheat?”

“No, I’m calling you a fucking _dumbass._ ”

 _“Why_ are you _yelling?”_ Geralt demands, standing over their table. He _hates_ it when people he cares about get into fights. He hates picking sides, hates having to deal with the fallout. Everything about the situation has his hackles up, and it's over a fucking card game.

“Stay out of this, Geralt.” Lambert snaps back at him, eyes fixed on Jaskier. 

“Jaskier?” He asks levelly.

“Piss off, I can handle this _without_ you.” Jaskier says hotly, fury radiating off of him even stronger now. 

_“_ Can’t you both just go to bed?” Geralt asks, very reasonably for how deeply annoyed he feels. “Look up the rules tomorrow.”

“Yeah Jaskier, go to bed.” Lambert sneers, ignoring his suggestion entirely.

“Shove a _brick_ up your _ass_ , dog boy.” Jaskier seethes. Clearly this is going nowhere.

Geralt throws his hands up in frustration and walks towards the bar, though turning his back on them makes his instincts go nuts. Maybe there’s a bucket of water he can toss on them, or something really strong he can drink and forget about this lunacy.

“I thought you’d be all over making Geralt rescue you.” Lambert snipes behind him. 

There’s a palpable surge of anger from Jaskier and he turns just in time to see him throw a wholeass chair at Lambert. 

He's stunned, for a moment. All of them are, taking in what just happened. Even Jaskier seems a little horrified at his own actions, but that doesn’t stop him from putting his fists up like he thinks this is a fight he could win. Lambert flips the table with a roar, claws lengthening.

They're on each other in an instant. Later, he'll be grateful and a little impressed that Lambert goes in with fists and not swords and teeth. 

And he could walk away. There is nothing preventing him from just carrying on up the stairs and doing his best to fall asleep. He can’t walk away, he can’t. And he _knows_ this will cross a line he won't be able to come back from, he _knows_ this means something but _fuck it._ He never did know when to quit. That protective drive surges up inside him and before he can blink he's halfway across the room reaching for Lambert's collar.

"Lambert!" He yells, hauling him back. stepping between the two of them. " _Calm down."_

Lambert struggles half-heartedly against his grip, which he expected, but he didn't think Jaskier would crash into him, trying violently to claw at Lambert.

Geralt fists a hand in the bard's shirt and shoves him back too, now holding back both of them. 

"Let go of me!" Jaskier snarls, throwing his weight against Geralt’s restraining hand.

"Control your boy, Geralt." Lambert snaps, hackles raised, teeth long. It's a threat and he recognizes it as one. 

“Oh, _fuck_ you!” Jaskier spits back, managing to clip Geralt’s wounded shoulder as he swings wildly towards Lambert.

Geralt growls. He’s _had_ it. Geralt shoves Lambert back and tosses Jaskier over his shoulder. Lambert bares his teeth but stays where he is. It’s difficult to carry a grown man anywhere when he doesn’t want to be carried, even if he’s Jaskier, frame built for being pretty and carrying itself between performances. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs he’s out of breath and seriously annoyed. He kicks his own door open, the closest thing to a den he has, the safest place he has that smells the least like strangers.

When he tosses Jaskier onto the bed he does not do so gently. 

“Stay _down_.” He growls, pinning Jaskier in place with a large hand. 

“I don’t need your help!” Jaskier yells at him, because he’s an idiot.

“He could have killed you,” He snaps, tired and angry. “Lambert does that.” 

Jaskier scoffs, and maybe Lambert wouldn’t, but he can’t _believe_ that right now.

Geralt surges onto the bed after him, driving him backwards. Jaskier scrambles up the bed until he hits the headboard, glaring up at Geralt. Here, closer, he smells like fight and booze over the underlying scent of Jaskier, like perfume and expensive fabrics, and, irritatingly, _Lambert_. The other Witcher’s scent is all around his doublet where Lambert had grabbed him and just, _on him_ , and he _hates_ it. 

“Okay, I feel like you came up here with a reason but right now you’re just sniffing me.” Jaskier complains, resting on his elbows.

“You smell like him.” Geralt says, frustrated, trying to think. “Take your doublet off.”

And Jaskier narrows his eyes but, blessedly, obeys. He tosses his doublet onto the floor and already it’s better. Jaskier's legs fall open, an invitation, and he crawls up closer between them greedily. He smells even better up close. Geralt can’t help ducking down to press his mouth against his pulse point, low on his long neck, and now he smells like Geralt too. He chases the lingering hint of Lambert’s hands up his jaw until he reaches Jaskier’s ear. 

Jaskier’s hands come up to rest lightly on his hips. He has smelled like arousal for the past five minutes. His pupils are very round in the low candlelight. 

“I thought you weren’t interested.” Jaskier breathes, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

"Your face’s smelt like my come _all night_." Geralt grits out, voice tortured.

"Really? I thought I'd got it all?"

" _No_." 

"Oh. Bet you can smell mine then too, huh?"

" _Yes_."

“That’s kind of hot.” 

"I can smell you on my shirt too." He says, voice raw, " _Fuck_ , what you do to me, little bird." 

“Does it smell good, like - is that a good smell?”

Geralt isn’t sure how to answer him - it’s not what the smell _is,_ a composite of the thick bitter-sour scent of human come, of sweat and skin and Jaskier’s own musk - but what it _reminds_ him of. It’s Jaskier, kneeling in front of him, moaning as he enthusiastically swallows Geralt’s cock. It’s the pleasure-drunk look in his eyes as Geralt touches him, the way his mouth is soft and open when he comes all over Geralt’s hand. He never wants to wash this shirt again.

“Hm.” He says, an answer.

Jaskier kisses him, open-mouthed and wanting. His lips are soft and sweet and frighteningly addictive. It’s getting harder to think of why he shouldn’t be doing this.

“Are you going to touch me, or am I going to have to go to sleep like this? Because I make no promises for the state of the sheets by morning.” Jaskier threatens. 

Geralt meets his eyes. Parsing the meaning of words gets harder when he’s like this, all wound up in _feeling_. He doesn’t know what it’s like for humans, this burning attraction to someone, this physical _need_ to have them with you. He was turned and changed long before he got the chance to feel lust for another, but from what he’s gathered it’s not so intense. Even with people he’s paid, professionals he’s never met before he’s been in bed with them, he has a hard time leaving when his hour is done. He wants to linger, to protect, to do - _something,_ he doesn’t even know _what_. He’s never allowed himself to find out.

It - whatever _it_ is - feels so much stronger now. He feels like a fish caught on a line, unable to resist the pull _towards._ There’s a burning hook in his soul and Jaskier’s been reeling it in for _days_ now. Geralt dips his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck again, trying to get his bearings.

“At least Lambert isn’t such a damn tease.” Jaskier whines, wiggling like he means to leave, maybe and he can’t have that.

He stuffs his hands under Jaskier's shirt, splaying his hands over smooth, unmarked skin. _Safe_ , he was _safe_ ; Geralt hadn't failed him. 

Jaskier whines again when he brushes a nipple and Geralt bites his neck gently, a reward. He works a hand into Jaskier's pants, wanting to pull more of those sounds from his beautiful mouth. Jaskier rewards him generously, all gasps and gentle moans. His cock feels good in Geralt’s hand, satisfying in the way holding a well-crafted sword is. He strokes him carefully and then Jaskier is kissing him and making those delicious sounds against Geralt's mouth and it's good, it's so good. Kissing Jaskier is like the tug of a good hallucinogen, occluding every other feeling until the world is Jaskier’s mouth open and eager under his. He wants to get lost in it, in this moment, forever.

When Jaskier thrusts up into his barely-moving hand he realizes that maybe he has. He speeds up his stroke, tries to compensate for his inattention but it's too dry. Geralt doesn't get to do this often, is aware that Jaskier has many people to compare him to but he wants to do _well_ for Jaskier, wants to be remembered favourably. So he moves down Jaskier's body towards his cock, though he gets distracted along the way with the need to push his shirt away and place kisses against his warm, lovely skin. The startled gasp he lets out when Geralt finally touches his tongue to Jaskier's cock is amazing. He tastes amazing too, all salt and clean skin, his cock thick and heavy on his tongue. He holds him steady with one hand and really savours the feel of the soft skin sliding slickly over his lips. He can taste Jaskier’s pulse far down on his cock. And it's perfect and one day he wants to let Jaskier sink his hands into his hair and use him, just fuck his face until he comes down his throat, grateful. Right now he'd be willing to let Jaskier come like this but lingering traces of Lambert's scent haunt Jaskier's skin even here, even having bathed and that's what this is all about really. Lambert doesn't get this, not anymore. Geralt's not sure what his claim is worth or what Jaskier will want with him tomorrow but right now, while Jaskier's grabbing his shirt collar and practically writhing against him, he doesn't get to smell like _anyone_ else.

Geralt chases the scent down between his legs, kissing and licking until he gets to his hole and Jaskier is _properly_ swearing now. The sheets tug under Geralt's knees from the way Jaskier is grabbing them. His thighs are clenched tight, pressing wonderfully against Geralt's body but still it's not _quite_ right - his nose is getting smushed and his tongue can't quite reach Jaskier where he wants it to. He rolls Jaskier over, tugs his hips up until his cheeks part and he can dive in again properly. He eats him out until his jaw aches, until Jaskier doesn't smell like anything but himself and Geralt, until Jaskier's panting silently as he rubs himself against Geralt's tongue, legs trembling. It’s very flattering.

"Geralt, I can't believe I'm asking this but please, please can you fuck me, please I need it so bad." His voice is breathy and absolutely irresistable. 

Jaskier scrabbles one-handed on the bedside table for a flask of oil, knocking shit over but that hardly matters right now. Candlelight flickers over his face, painting in gold and shadow. It highlights the cut of his cheek bones, the glitter of his bright eyes. Geralt has never seen anything so beautiful. He rubs absentminded circles over Jaskier's smooth skin, strangely content to just _look_ , to drink him in. This is stupidly dangerous, indulging his wants like this, but like the spilled contents of his bedside table, he cannot bring himself to care about it right now.

Jaskier looks back at him, and some of the adoration must show on his face because the bard preens.

"I do look good like this, don't I?" He grins, arching his back a little to show off the sultry curve of his body. 

Geralt moves over him to kiss that smug, beautiful smile off his smug, beautiful face. It's a trifle awkward, kissing Jaskier from behind him, but that's more than made up for by the way he can press his whole body along Jaskier's back. His heavy cock slides smoothly between Jaskier's cheeks. He teases them both by savouring the glide of his cock against the channel of Jaskier's ass. It's so good and it's not nearly enough; Jaskier groans impatiently, trying to catch the head of Geralt's cock against his hole.

Geralt agrees with him. It's a simple enough matter to grease them both up, although it tests the limits of his patience. He is achingly hard, and the tantalizing slide of his oiled hand does nothing to take the edge off. He wants to be inside Jaskier's body, wants to fill him up and erase all traces of any others. He wants Jaskier to remember him _forever_. 

He slides into Jaskier smoothly. Watching his cock disappear into Jaskier's welcoming body is an almost spiritual experience. He's never been a big believer in fertility goddesses, but if Melitele placed Jaskier under him he might have to convert.

He pauses for a moment, bottomed out, hips pressing deliciously against Jaskier's bottom. The bard breathes into it, trembling slightly. 

"Fuck, you're big." He laughs shakily.

Geralt presses little kisses against his shoulder, wondering if this is too much for him right now, praying he doesn't have to pull out but willing to all the same. He's arched over Jaskier's back, hand planted on the mattress, carrying most of his weight. Jaskier slips a hand over it and threads their fingers together. It's so sweet he doesn't know what to do with the gesture except lock it away in his heart forever.

He thrusts minutely into Jaskier' body, assessing his response. Jaskier shakes his head, frowning, "Needs more oil." 

Geralt pulls out gently and slathers more on until his hands are dripping with oil. Again he guides his cock gently into Jaskier's ass, going slow. He lightly bites Jaskier's shoulder as he presses in deeper, giving him a gentler pain to latch onto. Jaskier moans again, voice sounding caught between pain and pleasure.

This time Geralt holds brutally still as Jaskier starts fucking himself on Geralt's cock, careful not to let his claws digs into the sensitive skin of his hips. He’s having a hard time staying in a human shape, spilling over with tension and _feelings,_ control worn thin. It doesn’t help that Jaskier starts riding his cock with just a slight, maddening bounce, saying bullshit like "I knew you'd feel incredible" and "Melitele's tits, you fill me so well" until finally he's begging for Geralt to fuck him and what can Geralt do but oblige? He clenches his too-sharp teeth and picks up a good pace, the slap of skin on skin filling the space between Jaskier’s bitten off cries and held-in moans. He’s not obnoxiously loud, which Geralt appreciates - he hates fucking someone who moans and screams like they’re trying to prove a point. Honestly he kind of thought that without a cock in his mouth Jaskier would be the same way: performative. But the man just sounds like he’s honestly enjoying himself, very much, like he can’t help the little private sounds he’s making when Geralt slips and lets his claws dig into delicate skin. He’s trying to be gentle but it’s so hard when Jaskier’s all loose-limbed and happy under him. When his knot begins to swell he can't help teasing himself a little by slipping it into Jaskier, just while it's small, just to feel what it _might_ be like to fill him up completely. Surely the bard won't notice a _little_ difference. 

"Oh fuck, what is that?" Jaskier turns to ask him, wiggling his hips against the bulge that’s swelling to a definitely noticeable size.

“My knot.” Geralt admits, too drunk on sex to think about shame.

“Oh my god,” Jaskier says faintly.

“It's okay, I won't -”

“I want that fucking in me.” Jaskier interrupts, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Please, oh my god, I _want_ it.”

And Geralt, if he's honest with himself, has never been able to deny Jaskier anything. So he stops being careful, stops teasing himself, stops edging his knot at the rim of Jaskier’s hole and just shoves. He’s aware that his teeth are growing overlong, unable to keep his eyes in their normal shape but he doesn’t even care. Once he presses _fully_ into Jaskier's body, arousal washes over his mind so strong and overpowering it feels like a fucking drug. He almost forgets what his body is feeling, so great is the pleasure of putting his knot in _Jaskier's_ body, it's so dirty and forbidden and hot and also something chemically significant is fluctuating in his body because the finest mundane erotic experience in the world couldn't turn him on like this. It's like the first time he encountered a succubus, immune to its control but not unaware of how she was toying with the chemicals in his mind. He comes back to his body slowly, aware of the stimulation he's getting from the tight slide of Jaskier's body around his knot. Jaskier is grinding against him, babbling all kinds of nonsense about how he's good, so good, so _fucking_ good and Geralt still feels pleased about that even though Jaskier sounds as pleasure-drunk as he feels. Their scent is so thick in the air Geralt can taste how close Jaskier is to coming. There isn't a lot of room for moving between the two of them but by rolling his hips he can drag out just the slightest bit of friction. It's torturous - he's so near to coming, he can feel it building low in his belly but it's just not enough. He wraps an arm around Jaskier, holding him close as he rocks into him. His body is hot where they're pressed against each other. 

Jaskier sinks a hand deep into his hair and _twists_ , exactly how Geralt likes and begs, "Finish inside me Geralt, _please_." 

He comes so hard his vision goes white for a moment. It's a new kind of orgasm, an experience he didn't think was left to him by now. Worldshattering, like the first time a whore sucked him off with her fingers deep inside him. When he comes back to himself, Jaskier legs are spread wide across his thighs, hard cock bobbing between his legs. He's locked tight around Geralt's knot still and he feels a bone-deep _satisfaction_ at the sight. He keeps holding Jaskier close to him as he wraps a hand around his cock. Jaskier rests a hand on his wrist that grows tighter the faster he goes until his fingernails are digging into him sharply but it's fine, it's okay, because he would give Jaskier absolutely anything and Jaskier's breathing quick and short and coming all over his hand for the second that day.

They pause for a moment and just breathe. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Jaskier’s shoulder, mind still warm with afterglow. When the world clarifies a bit, sounds from downstairs filtering back into his awareness, he gentles them over into lying down. 

The crook of Jaskier's neck is begging for him to press his face into it, warm and inviting. He smells safe and happy and deeply relaxed. There is absolutely no way Jaskier can run off into trouble right now; he should’ve thought of this ages ago. His knot feels good too, still weirdly sensitive compared to the rest of his shaft.

Jaskier pulls back from him a bit, tugging against his knot experimentally, asks, “Huh. That's a new one, I have to say. How long are we going to be stuck together?”

“I'm not sure. Never done this before.” He says sleepily. 

Jaskier whips around with an almost comical inhale.

“It's probably not long,” Geralt clarifies, a little defensively. “I don’t know, ten minutes? Is that too long?”

“No that's not - you've never knotted _anyone_ before?”

He shrugs, more interested in running his thumb over Jaskier's soft skin where his hand rests on his hip. His body invites touch, smooth and lovely. It's nice, being able to touch him like this.

"No one's ever asked." Geralt replies.

Jaskier stares at him a moment longer before dropping back to the pillow. 

He reaches up to where Geralt's hand is resting and threads their fingers together.

Jaskier's half-asleep when his knot deflates enough to pull out. Geralt can hear his heartbeat speedup as Geralt slips out of him as gently as possible, but he settles back into his doze quickly.

He’s lying curled around Jaskier, worn out and weirdly cold. He never gets to feel this for long, rarely holds anyone after sex and never after he’s knotted them, but he feels strange now. Alone. He feels wrung out, and also he wants - he wants: _touch me,_ he thinks at Jaskier, willing him to hear his thoughts. _Please_. It’s good, being this close to him, and he should be happy, should be content to have this, but Jaskier is turned away from him and it’s not enough but he can’t _ask_. He doesn’t have the words for it. The only ones he can think of dry up in his throat. _Please touch me_ , he pleads silently. But Jaskier only yawns, stretching an arm out so that his knuckles brush tantalizingly against Geralt’s cheek. He locks himself tighter around Jaskier, strangely miserable.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, twisting in his arms to face him. “You okay back there, big guy?”

The words Geralt wants to say are stuck to his throat, a choking knot that the easier lies of “I’m fine” can’t slip past. He buries his face in Jaskier’s hair and nods, neither a lie nor an admission. He wants the moment to run down, wants to feel _normal_ again.

“I can’t know what you want if you don’t tell me.” Jaskier admonishes gently, and it feels almost like betrayal because he _can’t_ and so Jaskier _won’t_ and this was such a mistake, such a huge _fucking_ mistake.

Jaskier drowsily presses his forehead to Geralt's. Tentatively, Geralt takes Jaskier's hand and places it in his hair, because he might as well try, right? If this is too fraught a thing to let himself have in half measures, if it has to be all or nothing, let him try and have it all. He watches Jaskier's half-closed eyes as he smiles, as the shape of them changes. 

"Hmm. Is this what you wanted?" Jaskier asks fondly, combing a hand gently through his hair. 

It is, or it's near enough anyways. The grief that had been swelling up inside him flees like mist before the sun. Joy replaces it, warming him more with every pass of Jaskier's hand. A shiver of pleasure runs down his spine. Jaskier traces the curve of his ear with a long, talented finger and he nearly shatters. 

"Thank you, by the way." Jaskier says, running a finger gently over his bandaged shoulder. "Those guys were way more excited about torture than I'd counted on and I, for one, am pleased to remain unbranded."

"Hm." He deflects. He doesn't need Jaskier's gratitude, but it's nice to have.

"I'm sorry you got hit though," Jaskier yawns, snuggling in closer, drawing little swirling designs against his back. "Is it going to take long to heal?"

 _As if that matters._ Geralt leans in and kisses him gently.

It's perfect, it's so fucking perfect that his earlier worries seem foolish now. He lets out a long, contented sigh and tugs his bard against him, holds him as close as he knows how. His heart might be glowing. Jaskier continues lazily running a hand over his head and down his back.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Jaskier murmurs against his chest.

"Hm." He agrees, _obviously_. 

In the morning he wakes up to Jaskier’s warm, sleep-heavy body pressed against his and he can’t quite bring himself to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert was right, Villentretenmerth does get to take out Jaskier's whole melee line. It's a very frustrating move.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want you all to know how close this came to being called Little Red Riding Wood, but less awful people overruled me.
> 
> Also, it should be noted that at all times in this fic Lambert thinks he's helping. At no point does Geralt agree with him.


End file.
